“Y’kin use my razor t’chop off that beard, son,” he said. “C’mon, get around now. Got soup and sandwiches ready an’ some famous Hocum coffee.”
Nick straightened his wrinkled clothing, shaking the last remnants of weary fog from his brain. Andy went on talking to him and said something that woke Nick Danson up completely.
“Yer buddies was here, couple o’ hours ago, son.”
“What?” It was almost impossible to keep the surprise out of his face and voice. Andy didn’t seem to notice anything wrong.
“Th’ fellers y’got drunk with. Wanted t’know if I’d seen any strangers on th’ road. I said I hadn’t, ’cause I figgered they might want t’slap y’around again.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
Who could possibly know about the plane crash? [p29] If the wreck had been found, it would be the police asking questions, not two strangers. Somebody, somewhere, was searching for him. Who? And what did they want?
Fingers of fear and worry flittered along his spine.
When they had finished eating, Nick shaved, cleaned himself up and followed Andy out to where his car was parked. He found that he liked the old man, but under the circumstances conversation was difficult. The plane crash, for one thing, was a bit on the odd side. The burning wreckage, he recalled, had shown no signs of ever having had wings or a tail assembly. But that was probably minor; the wings could have been ripped off by the trees when the plane came down. The important thing was that someone knew he was here. As they drove toward the town of Everett, the old man began talking about the strangers that had inquired after Nick earlier in the day.
“... Nope, I says to the big feller, ain’t seen a soul on foot all day, ’ceptin’ o’course, Jimmy Dilson, goin’ down t’Willer Creek, t’fish. That seemed t’satisfy them so they lit out.”